Last Relic
by Cassiline
Summary: A secret genome project has been sabotaged. The key to a 3,000-year-old mystery is missing. The clock is counting down for Earth’s survival.
1. Default Chapter

Summary: A secret genome project has been sabotaged. The key to a 3,000-year-old mystery is missing. The clock is counting down for Earth's survival.  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my body. No, wait…no, I own nothing.

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Bright lights flooded her vision; tiny pin pricks against her dilated pupils. The world was white. Blinking rapidly to sweep the clammy sleep from her eyes, she struggled upright and shielded her face. Four white walls surrounded her, void of any decoration. She lie on a raised dais covered with a thin sheet. Various machines beeped rhythmically beside her with long tubes extending from their bodies to...  
  
"Oh my...God!" she screamed, staring at the many tubes invading her arms, legs, torso and face. She couldn't stop screaming and then the pain came. It washed over her body like a tidal wave, taking her breath away. Angrily, she pulled at the tubes on her arms and legs leaving swollen holes in her flesh. Grasping the tube against her temple, she ripped it out frantically, screaming again at the sudden jolt of pain and blood. She desperately clawed at the side of the platform, pulling herself towards the edge and sliding off on to the bruising cold floor. Her back hit hard on the tile causing a rush of lightning pain to ripple down her spine. Her eyes felt like they were burning from the inside.  
  
God, where was she? Lumbering awkwardly to her feet, she unsteadily swayed towards on white wall. She ran her fingers over the solid face until she jumped in surprise. A thin crevice revealed a hidden door. Gathering her strength, she began banging her fists against the door, yelling for someone, anyone, to her help her. No sound, no footsteps. The door didn't budge. Sagging against it, hot tears traced lines down her blooded cheek. Reaching up, she realized the wound from the tube in her temple had continued to bleed, seeping blood over her cheek and ear. Staring at the crimson stain on her hand, she cried again for someone and smeared the blood across the door in an angry swipe. Without warning, the door slid over and she toppled head first through the threshold.  
  
Another white room, but different...a bathroom. It was small; barely long enough for her to lay her full length. A porcelain sink topped by an unframed mirror sat across the room. Using the sink to lift herself, she warily turned her eyes to the glass and stood shocked. Half her face was a colored with drying blood that had begun to crust around the wound above her ear. Brown-red hair flopped over her brows, dark against the paleness of her skin. Green eyes watched her from the glass, taking in her thin shoulders and naked breasts. This face was pretty, but...whose was it?

* * *

"Has the specimen been contained?"  
  
"Of course, sir. She located the bathroom door, but has not left it."  
  
"Has she said anything?"  
  
"No, sir. She screamed for a few minutes, but desisted once we opened the bathroom portal. From her actions so far, I don't believe she remembers."  
  
Two brown hands clasped over the top of gunmetal gray desk. The lights were low in this room, the man behind the desk sitting in shadows, his face hidden. His voice conveyed the power and control he held. Deep and melodious, it inspired fear and obedience from his workers. Anything less and...no one disobeyed.  
  
"What about our project? Any signs of...realization?"  
  
The young scientist, Mateo Brun, gulped audibly and fidgeted nervously from one foot to the other. "Well, um, no, not really. B-But we expect results within days, sir. Even though the project is not complete, we-"  
  
"What?!" The dark man shot up in his chair, knocking it over and slamming his hands down on to the desk, leaving visible imprints. Brun jumped and stepped back, huddling pathetically against the door. He cringed while he listened to the director's breathing rasp loudly against the unrelenting silence of the room. "I was told this project was completed and only the awakening of the specimen remained. If you are still working, why is she awake?!"  
  
"We-We don't know, sir. Yet!" He inserted frantically as the man's fists hit steel again. "I, I mean we, can fix this. I'm sure her awakening is only temporary. We can easily subdue her. There's no way out of the room except from the outside." Breathing in shallow gasps, Brun waited in agony while the director stood silent and still. It seemed an eternity before he lifted his hands and pulled back into the darkness behind his desk.  
  
"I trust you will take care of this incident. Do not come to this office again until you have completed the objectives."  
  
Nodding and muttering incoherently, Brun escaped through the door as it slid open behind him. Waiting until it closed, he collapsed into a chair in the hallway. Oh God, he had lied. What was he going to do?

* * *

In a control room adjacent to the large white square where the specimen was housed, a dark man sat watching her. TV monitors littered the wall, capturing her from every angle. He brushed dark black hair away from a handsome face, shifting his body to see her face better.  
  
Yes, her eyes were different. His grey pupils narrowed as his gaze swept over her naked body. Leaning back gracefully, he propped his jaw in his hand, his other hand fingering the remote control he had used to stop the drip that had been leaking a strong sedative into her blood for months now.  
  
She was awake. The game had begun.

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Please R&R. If it sucks, feel free to flame. Otherwise, constructive criticism is always nice. Oh, and if someone has already done this, please tell me. 


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: Robin escapes from a secret government lab with the help of a dark agent, but is she really safe now? And why can't she remember anything about her life?

Disclaimer: I do not own WHR.

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His hand shook visibly as he grasped at the top shelf. Eyeing the corridor, Brun pulled down a clear vial, its contents a viscous white. Clasping it tightly, he walked stiffly down the row of medical supplies. His eyes never stopped moving. This vial wasn't supposed to be there. Documents said it had been destroyed two years ago after it had adverse affects on laboratory mice and rabbits. They convulsed and bled from the eyes and ears. Considered too dangerous to keep in a busy lab it was incinerated. But documents lie. The specimen had been injected with the substance a year ago. Brun could still remember her eyes, staring straight into his. She gripped his arm until it went numb. Her body convulsed, but no blood. No blood, Brun thought, but that would have been a blessing. Her eyes, a beautiful brown, had faded as if the color were being leeched out. Brun reached the door and grasped the knob for a moment, remembering those black pupils dilating in a pool of eerie white. He shuddered and his hand spasmed around the narrow glass.

Brun shook off the memory and swung the door open to step out into a brightly lit hallway. He pulled a syringe out of his lab coat pocket and started walking while he plunged the needle into the vial's rubber stopper.

"No one knows...no one knows," Brun mumbled to himself. At the end of the hallway stood a white door, almost invisible against the same colored wall. Thin black lines marked its edges. Brun stood before the door and hastily pressed a code into the gray keypad indented in the wall. A red light blinked twice before changing to neon green. Brun expelled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The door slid open silently to reveal a stark white room. Brun took in the empty platform; the blood spatters on the sheet and floor. Lifting his eyes hesitantly, his hands shaking in his pockets, Brun stared at the naked form of the specimen as she turned to face him.

* * *

Sitting in his dark office, the director sat unmoving. His bowed head almost touched the desk. Without looking up, he picked up the black telephone on his right and dialed an anonymous number. Five rings played along the phone wire before a smooth voice answered.

"Prepare your men. She must be contained."

"I was told a simple injection would solve the problem. My employer will not appreciate this disruption."

Cold damp sweat slicked across the director's forehead. He scrubbed at it with his jacket sleeve, the smell of fear tainting the air. "Just prepare the men. There won't be problem. She's weak. Brun can fix this. I don't know what happened-"

"Wait," the voice cut in sharply. "You do not know how she awoke?"

"No, of course we do! A machine malfunctioned. Brun made a mistake. He'll be punished," the director continued to babble.

"So whose fault is it?" the voice asked, dangerously low. "Be careful, monsieur. Your lies are beginning to collide," the voice was taking on a clipped French accent. The director could almost feel anger radiating through the phone. "My men will report to your office in 10 minutes." He gave another terse warning and hung up.

Dropping the phone discordantly into its cradle, the director rose slowly from his chair and straightened his tie. His face hung dogged and sallow. The director had to fix this. If she fell into his hands... No, that wouldn't happen. He, the director, wouldn't let it happen. His hands stilled on his jacket at a sudden thought.

Where was Brun?

* * *

In a trance she stared unseeing into the mirror. Everything else had faded into nothing, only two piercing green eyes. Dimly she heard a soft swish, like air being released, and turned slowly. The lights of the room had suddenly become too bright and she blinked rapidly trying to adjust. A dark shadow stood shrouded in glossy white, but his face eluded her.

She moved forward to clutch the doorway just as the figure moved, his hand drawing up. Something grasped in it...silver... Her eyes went wide as she recognized the instrument. Oh God, she knew this thing. A blinding pain shot through her skull. Grabbing her head between her hands, she fell to her knees as distorted memories flooded back.

* * *

_"Hold her down! We don't want any bruises." She lay on her back against cold steel. Four figures stood over her, looking like giants. She tried to focus on what they were saying, but it was all jumbled up. "Needs to be injected...heart...shut down...function." She wanted to speak but her lips wouldn't move. Her eyes ricocheted inside their sockets as the image began to blur. A coldness swept up her arm, creeping through her muscle into the shoulder and finally her chest. She couldn't breathe. A pale blurred face leaned over her. "It's taking effect. Inject it before she is unconscious." A quick metallic reflection, blinding pain and then darkness._

* * *

She startled back to reality as sharp pain shot up her legs. At some point she had collapsed to her knees and sat kneeling, her whole body shaking from the onslaught.

Peering up through her lashes, she watched the man in a white lab coat slowly close the distance. He was whispering something under his breath; his hands held out like a shield. One clutched a syringe.

No. She didn't know what had happened, but not again. She sat still on the cold floor. Instinct had taken over. Could this soft man with his close-cut brown hair and sweating lip really be the cause of this?

* * *

Brun shifted closer to the silent figure. God, why didn't she move? He could feel sweat trickling down his back; his shoulders were beginning to ache from his stiff posture. Licking his lips and riding a wave of false courage, Brun leapt forwards and grabbed the specimen, shoving her to the floor. Landing atop her, he brought down the syringe only to be stopped by her hand. She pushed up against him, turning the syringe away from her exposed chest.

Brun heaved himself higher for better leverage and stabbed harder. He couldn't fail, no, she had to die again. His face scrunched up into deep lines, teeth bared as he pushed harder. Brun's eyes widened until the whites bugged out and his pupils expanded, the deep brown irises disappearing. Fear snaked up his spine as the young girl turned the syringe away from him with unknown strength. Her knee came up unexpectedly to shove him over on to his back. She landed on top of him in a heap. He couldn't breathe.

Looking down, Brun stared at the empty needle protruding from his chest. The girl above him watched with those bright green eyes. He had given her those eyes. "I-" he tried to speak but blood choked his throat and dribbled down his cheek. His body convulsed and lay still.

* * *

She crept back slowly off the body. Her hand touched something hot and jerking back she found it coated in crimson. A pool of red was sweeping out beneath the man. Scrambling back, she hugged the wall and made her way towards the open door. She didn't know where she was going, but she had to get out of here. As she slid her hand around the doorframe, something grabbed her. A scream built in her throat but was stifled by a black-gloved hand.

"Don't make a sound." The voice was silky, so low it made invisible fingers creep up her spine. She looked up into pure gray eyes shrouded by raven black hair. A strong, handsome face. He tugged her forward, seeming to forget her as he scanned the hallway, but his grip never left her. Footsteps announced a presence around the corner. Without waiting, he muttered," Follow me," and wrapped an unseen black coat around her shoulders. She had no one else, not even herself. So she followed him.

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Please R&R.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 is up. Please review...they make me happy.

Disclaimer: I do not own WHR or its characters.

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Where was the damn elevator?

His feet, which barely whispered across the hard marble, drummed inside his head. Too much noise. They could hear every footstep, every quick breath she dragged in. The coat flapped like wings about her willowy frame. The tie hung loose across her hips, the coat edges offering glimpses of pale flesh with each step. A bead of sweat twisted down his back. She was beginning to lag. Her hand jerked in his as she lost her footing again and again. A swift glance behind him revealed what he feared most. She couldn't make it. Her face gleamed with a wet sheen of perspiration; the skin was colorless and waxen. Tiny specks of saliva escaped her parted lips with each labored breath. Her chest was heaving too hard. The green of her eyes had receded to a thin band ringing black pools.

The hallway arrowed straight for another 10 feet and then made a hard 90-degree turn to end in front of a large bank of elevators. A door labeled 'EXIT' stood to his right. Stairs or elevator. Elevator or stairs. He ran a calloused hand over his face, shoving them through his hair in agitation. Her breathing filled his mind and his heartbeat had never sounded so loud. Not sparing a glance at where she leaned heavily against the wall, he pressed the elevator down button. And waited.

His fingers twitched restlessly in his coat pocket, out of sight. He wanted to tap his foot, walk in circles, anything to relieve this tension. Nothing sounded in the hallway, but it didn't mean anything. They could be waiting in the elevator with guns held in ready position. Or maybe men lined the stairwell prepared to cut them down. No, he would save her. She would not suffer the same fate.

Where was the damn elevator?

* * *

There was no air. Just vapid, empty space blocking her throat. She leaned her shoulders against the cool wall and turned her burning cheek to its surface. Every muscle spasmed and twisted until hot salt tears glazed the world in shimmering focus. Blinking to clear her gaze, she inhaled a shallow breath and shifted her eyes to the dark figure before her. His head was bent as if in deep contemplation, but somehow she thought he could hear every gasp and ruffle of the coat. Jet-black hair swung down to obscure his face and his hands were jammed deep in his pockets. Utterly still, like a carved stone statue standing mute and without expression.

Turned towards the elevators, she felt at ease to study him. He was tall. Scarce images darted in front of her eyes like butterfly wings-so quick they remained a soft blur. A street crammed with bustling people; a young girl running and laughing with wheat-colored locks spiraling out behind her; tart sensation of oversweet candy on her tongue and a cloudy face standing near the stove. None of them made sense. Did she know these faceless people? Were they part of her forgotten life? Her eyes stopped at his shoulder and stared unseeing while her mind tried to grasp reality.

Her life was...nothing. She recognized objects, knew the place as Japan, but everything else was shuttered off in some dead part of her brain. What was her name? God, she didn't even know that! A solitary drop snaked down her cheek to linger momentarily at her chin before falling soundlessly to the floor between her feet. To not even know her own name... A sob choked her throat but was distilled at the sudden gust of sharp wind. She realized he was gone and her flimsy clothing gaped obscenely down her torso. She grasped the tie and swiftly jerked it closed. Her cheeks heated with a hot blush.

One elevator stood open second from the left. Unbidden she walked forward to enter. The interior was gaudy even to her new eyes. Red velvet lined the walls drowned in gilded leaves and tiny flowers. Cringing slightly she stepped forward only to have her cold companion swing out, grab her arm and wordlessly shove her through the stairwell door. Opening her mouth to protest, she glanced back to watch the elevator doors close with a soft click. She rounded on him then, eyes fired by anger and fear. She had to concentrate not to shake with his steel gray gaze burning her, but she would not let him control another minute of an existence she did not even understand.

"Where are we going?" She almost turned to see who had spoken, but it was her own voice. He merely cocked a brow.

* * *

Five armed soldiers marched in perfect combat formation, their guns raised to waist level and eyes scanning the perimeter. The sterile white walls and fluorescent lights made their black clad figures stand out like candles in the dark. The director didn't dare look behind him. This was a place of science, not violence. He wiped at the film of nervous sweat along his upper lip.

Relief rushed up his chest like adrenaline when the open door of the specimen's chamber came into sight. Finally, this would all be... His step faltered as his brain rewinded. Open. Brun.

Ignoring the suffocating silence, the director wrapped his hand around the doorjamb and paused. He could feel the soldiers behind him vibrating raw energy. The director realized they were excited...they might get to kill. Sucking in a deep breath and steeling himself, he stepped into the entrance.

At once he wished he had not. The afternoon's lunch of turkey and chips gargled up his throat to pool nastily in the back of his mouth. Bending at the waist he rushed outside to purge himself. His eyes closed tightly against the image forever burned into them. Brun lying sprawled beside the bathroom door in a pool of black fluids, an empty syringe protruding rudely from his chest. Without the mix of sedatives and medications the specimen had received, Brun had bled from the eyes and nose, his orbs bloated so they bobbed above his sockets. Another wave of nausea roiled through him as the image blinked like a neon sign against his temples.

Wiping strings of spit and food from his lips, the director turned back towards the soldiers. They stood at attention outside the doorway with guns at the ready. Even now they were prepared to kill. Did nothing affect them?

"He's dead," the director stated from his position leaning weakly against the wall. Nothing. "I said, he's dead. The specimen is gone. Report back that the mission failed. Well? What are you waiting for?" he screamed when they remained silent. A soft tread alerted him to something far dangerous than soldiers' guns.

"It seems you lost something, yes?" The accented voice had seemed more..._masculine_...on the phone. The director stared, slightly mortified, at the golden-haired beauty gliding towards him. Each step brought the slither and creak of black leather that encased long legs and the jacket stopping just short of her pants. Stopping directly in front of him, she spoke quietly to the soldier who stepped forward at her entrance. He nodded imperceptibly and turned to his comrades speaking in rapid fire French. Lost in their jumbled words, the director did not notice her until she pressed a small hand against his groin. Gasping at the sudden contact and ashamed to feel a reaction, he tried to turn away from those awful blue eyes. Fogged over as if blind, but he knew she saw everything. She twisted viciously at his movement and he yelped in male anguish.

"What you've lost is not yet gone," she whispered close to his ear. "You will find and retrieve my employer's property before the midsummer solstice." She enunciated each word with a slight tightening of her hand that had the director whimpering and clutching at her arm. "

"I don't know where- Oh, God!" He screamed when she jerked her hand down. He felt something pop and blood ran thick down his leg to pool in his shoe.

"You will find her. My employer paid you the sum requested; now he wants what is his." Her tongue darted out to lick along the rim of his ear. The director cringed and tried to fold himself flatter against the wall to escape her ministrations. "Just think of the little wife sitting at home, knitting in hand, a bullet in her brain. And the children! So sad to see their scared faces decorating your lawn. I'm not sure where I would put the rest of them..."

The director's eyes widened, his pupils dilated and breath caught in his chest. "Yes, yes," he whispered. "I, I'll find her. They won't get away. No, they won't..." His voice drifted off still mumbling incoherently. The woman grimaced at his slack mouth and removed her hand from his crotch. She wiped the blood on his suit jacket and pulled out a 10 mm Glock from her under her waistband.

"Too bad my employer no longer trusts you. Your incompetence has forced me to undertake this task, something I have no wish to do. But this will make me feel better." Raising the weapon, she fired two shots into his chest and one through his temple. A tiny trickle of blood oozed out of the hole in his head before the director collapsed against the floor. His eyes stared blindly ahead. She turned away and walked back to her men, shoving the piece back into her waistband. "Remove the bodies and alert the central corp. We must find them before they leave the city."

* * *

He stared at her for a long moment before responding, "Rome."

It sounded familiar, like a memory standing on the tip of one's tongue. "Have I been there before?"

He seemed reluctant to say anything more by the way he shifted his stance and glanced back towards the door. "Yes. You were born there. Now, we have to leave-"

"No." Her bold statement stopped him mid sentence and his brows drew together in a sharp line across his forehead. "Tell me your name first. Wait, tell me mine."

"While we walk." He grasped her arm in a firm grip and bounded down the steps, leaving her to follow or be dragged in his wake. She wanted to stop him and force the issue, but the breath she had worked so hard to collect outside the elevators was evaporating with each jarring step. She lost count of flights and matched his steps automatically as her body tried to compensate by partially shutting down. The world returned when her face slammed into his back.

He was stopped in front of a heavy door staring out through a small glass window situated high on the frame. Apparently deciding all was well, he pushed through it and pulled her after. She tripped clumsily over a curb and fell on her hands and knees. The hard concrete bit through her skin. She looked up into her own eyes reflected off the door a black sedan. They were outside behind the building in a massive parking lot. The sky swirled violet and black as darker stratus clouds rumbled low in the atmosphere. Her companion dragged her up and shoved her forcefully into the open car, slamming the door shut behind her. Seconds later he slid in beside her and started the engine.

Shoving his foot to the floor, the car heaved and screamed into gear. Her head rammed against the window and red flecks floated before her eyes. He made a mad 180-degree turn and zoomed over a curb to fly into an empty unlit street. She didn't know how he could see. The headlights remained off, and he drove with an unnatural concentration, his gloved hands strangling the wheel. Too afraid to speak, she cowered in her seat and tried to absorb what had happened since she woke up, killed a man and escaped. Her thoughts were disrupted by a low utterance.

"What did you say?" She twisted to face him. His eyes never left the road.

"Amon. My name is Amon. You are Robin."

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Tell me what you think. I'm a review whore....so low.


	4. Chapter 4

Darkness enveloped them, creating a cocoon of black silk illuminated only by the dim yellow headlights. The windows stood at half-mast allowing the cooling autumn breeze to slip through and whip at the ends of his hair.

She had fallen asleep hours ago, her eyes slowly drooping lower and lower until her head fell back with a dull thump and her hands went limp in her lap. Her head rested against the window, mouth slightly agape. He could see the trauma of the day in the dark circles under her eyes and the pasty white of her cheeks. When she had lain on the white dais she seemed ethereal, like a wraith only there until he blinked. Now, she was alive. Even with the apparent exhaustion, her skin had lost its translucent quality, the blue and green veins snaking beneath her skin no longer visible. She was back from the dead.

Amon shifted his gaze back to the road, but he wasn't really watching. He knew this concrete drive from endless trips back and forth along its surface. It was the only road to the facility and the only one to the church.

Remembering all those long drives, Amon clutched the wheel. He had wanted to awaken her months ago. The first time he saw her he had almost dropped to his knees and cried. Not again, it couldn't be happening again. But there she was, lying cold and lifeless like a corpse prepared for autopsy, a white sheet there for man's strange sense of modesty for the dead.

When he arrived they had already completed her restructuring. His strict orders were to allow her to heal and develop before he made any move. So he sat behind thick mirrored glass and watched men in white lab coats with cold metal instruments prod and examine her, scribble innumerable notes and hold up clear syringes to the florescent lights, squirt an arc into the air, and inject it into her jugular vein. He always cringed when it pressed against her skin, and then pierced it, sliding it until he thought he might gag. God, he hated watching them, hated what they did to her. It was so much like...

No, that was over. Amon nodded his head in self-affirmation and glanced over at her sleeping form. She hadn't moved except for a small drop of saliva clinging to her bottom lip. He would admit it now; he had thought so before: she was beautiful. Even when those eyes had been doe brown, he had wanted her. He could remember her laughter and the way she would cling to his coat when she couldn't stand up anymore. He remembered the soft tone of her voice that almost never changed even when she was angry. Her stubbornness and mutinous stance when she didn't get what she wanted. The night she had curled up next to him on the couch to read over his shoulder, run her fingers through his dark hair until he couldn't stop himself from leaning over and turning off the lamp.

His eyes clamped shut at the last memory. She wasn't that woman anymore. Hell, she didn't even know her own name, much less who he was. Or even who James was. God, he had wondered for weeks if James knew, if he sensed it like a subtle electric tug. And then it hadn't mattered.

The wind whistled through the curves of his ear. The motor purred under his feet, and the clock read 3:15am. Sunrise was three hours away. He would make the church in less than an hour.

She awoke to a dull ache in her neck and jostling gait of the dark man. No, wait, he had a name now....Amon. Strange name. She wondered fleetingly if it was French or something more exotic. It was still dark and her eyes wouldn't adjust. They still burned in their sockets, and it hurt to keep them open in the wind. Amon was carrying her bridal style, his hands wrapped around her back and under he knees. Without thinking, she buried her head in the juncture between his shoulder and neck and felt his step falter before resuming its easy grace.

The darkness suddenly parted and a stone church appeared like a vision. She shifted in his arms, startled, but he tightened his arms to hold her still. Looking from his face to the carved doors and stone archway, she tried to imagine this place was real. She may not remember herself, but she knew finding a church hailing back to the dark ages was a little out of the ordinary. He set her down beside the door, his arm still around her back and knocked loudly three times. Turning to him, Robin pointed to the door and opened her mouth, but he only shook his head. Sighing loudly, she waited beside him until the door opened and a slight young man with blonde hair and a black smock ushered them inside. Amon swept her up again and nodded to the young man before stepping into the dark opening.

She lost track of which direction they were going after the third turn. Robin couldn't tell if they were walking up or down, left or right. She clung steadfastly to Amon's neck and listened intently, but there was nothing. It was a dank void where only the soft thud of Amon's soles ricocheted off the wall. Her own breathing sounded loud in the quiet. Amon made no noise as if he wasn't even there. She pressed her ear against his chest and relaxed at the steady thudding of his heart.

She knew she should be scared, should be clutching her jacket and crying in the darkness, but his presence soothed her. She felt.... safe. His scent...there was something familiar there. She couldn't quite grasp it and bit her tongue in frustration. It had to be important. He had to be important. She couldn't remember her own name, but she knew his scent. Was it a memory or just a trick of her mind?

An oak door loomed out of the wall. The dark brass handle turned before Amon reached it and swung open to reveal a man of the cloth dressed in scratchy brown wool, his head shaved and shining in the glow of the light emanating from behind him.

Amon set her down just outside the door and turned to speak with the monk. While they conversed, she took a gauging step and when neither tried to stop her, she walked into the room. Hundreds of candles lined a crystal chandelier hanging precariously from the ceiling. Her eyes began to burn again when she looked too long into the little dancing flames, so she turned away, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Lining the gray stone walls were evenly spaced brackets holding unlit torches, each unused and smelling of fresh moss and tangy oil. Standing in the center under the bright lights, she realized the room was quite small. It was maybe 20 feet wide and another long. Bored with the lack of doors and colorless walls, she swiveled to watch the two men still hunched over in conversation. The monk was older, maybe around forty. His cheeks sagged beneath his eyes and his forehead was lined with haggard worry marks. Too shaggy brown eyebrows framed blue eyes that calmly stared into the younger man's. His hands were linked comfortably in front of his cassock. She cocked her head to the side and chewed the inside of her lip before turning her eyes to Amon. He stood a head taller than the holy man, his shoulders noticeably wider and back straight. The long black coat hid his frame from neck to mid-calf, but she remembered the feel of his chest against her side when he carried her and blushed. Biting her bottom lip, Robin turned away before she could catalogue his face and took deep breathe, trying to dispel the butterflies in her abdomen.

"Robin." She turned at the sound of his voice more than her name. He beckoned her with his fingers and stretched out his arm, palm up. Lifting her skirts, Robin immediately went to him and took his hand.

He turned and followed the monk down another corridor that looked no different from the last. She squinted, looking for some marking, but there was only the cold stone and dark recesses dimly lit by banked torches. She didn't know how the monk or Amon knew where they were walking. Rubbing her eyes again, she tripped on the back of Amon's shoe. Mumbling an apology, she rubbed harder. Her eyes wouldn't adjust to the darkness. Opening them wide, her eyelids straining to draw back into her skull, Robin watched the walls, waiting for them to focus. Finally she stopped and rubbed her eyes furiously until they burned. Hands suddenly tore her fingers away and she blinked awkwardly up at Amon. His brows were creased across his nose and he stared into her eyes until she looked away, uncomfortable under his gaze.

"Don't rub them. It won't help. You'll feel better soon."

Astonished, she opened her mouth to reply, but he merely took her hand again and began walking, dragging her with him until she gained her footing. How had he known her eyes were bothering her?

Pursing her lips, she followed obediently, but vowed to speak to him when they were alone. She didn't like someone knowing so much about her while she understood nothing of him.

The monk stopped the end of the hall where it forked into two and motioned them to walk ahead to the left. Another oak door, but this time the monk knocked loudly three times and waited patiently. There was no answer for a few moments, and she fidgeted until Amon tugged her hand and shot her an annoyed look. Well, look at that, she thought, the man is human.

Quick shuffling and the creak of the deadbolt and the door opened. "Please, come in."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Please don't sue. I can barely afford my books as it is.

All right, it took me forever to update this. Sad, I know. Kept rewriting it, especially the latter part.

Thanks for all the wonderful review, guys. You're a great audience. Hope this chapter lives up to the rest of the story. I can't decide if I like it or hate it. Now it's in your hands. Compliment or flame, constructive criticism is desired. Hope you like it...

Oh, and you can thank the soundtrack from Cowboy Bebop and Witch Hunter Robin, Queen, Rufus Wainwright, Bob Dylan and Elvis Costello. Thanks, boys.

Chapter 5

* * *

A tall man stood in the doorway; his shoulders slightly stooped beneath his cardinal red priest's robes. Thick, white haircut in a bowl shape just above his ears framed wide set blue eyes topped with bushy gray brows. His nose was a smooth aquiline but for the slight bend in the middle, as if it had been broken at some point. High cheekbones and thin lips looked stern and authoritative, his cleft chin raised as he stared down his nose at them.

He swept his hand back, inviting them in while he continued his perusal. The monk gave a low bow before entering and Amon followed suit. When Robin didn't immediately move, he looked back and gave her a pointed glance. Hugging the borrowed coat close to her body, she turned her eyes downward to avoid those knowing blue orbs and stepped past him.

The room was square, windowless, rough stones climbing each wall. A glowing candelabrum hung from the ceiling, casting odd shadows. A huge bookcase lined two walls, its shelves stuffed with volumes and sheaves of papers tucked between texts and spilling on to the floor. In the center of the room sat a great oak desk, dark with age, its legs curving into clubbed feet. A 1920s style reading lamp hunched over a thick book, its pages torn and yellow with use.

Robin went to stand beside Amon. She fiddled nervously with a button on the borrowed coat until noticing a strange drawing in the fat text lying on the desk. A strange picture, she thought, five points…

The door closed with a loud click that made her jump and scoot closer to Amon's still figure. As the red-robed man sat down behind the great oak desk, the quiet monk followed to stand beside his chair, hands clasped.

"Ciò è il bishop di Firenze, padre Mauricio Benetello," the monk explained. "La sua Eccellenza potrà rispondere a tutte le vostre domande. Attenderò la parte esterna quando siete aspettate per andare in pensione ai vostri quarti." Bowing, he left the room.

Robin blinked owlishly and tugged on Amon's sleeve. Without turning, he said, "This is Father Benetello. He will explain everything."

Father Benetello sat forwards in the deep, black leather chair and steepled his long fingers beneath his chin. His pupils contracted until only a small dot of onyx black remained in a swirling azure sea. They locked with Robin's wide eyes like an electric current, taking in every feature. She wanted to blink, to look away. Her eyes burned worse than before and tears pooled. If felt like white-hot fingers poking through her eyes into her brain and opening hidden portals to peer inside. Finally, he blinked slowly and turned from her. Robin gasped roughly, realizing she had been holding her breath.

"You have done well, Amon. The Church appreciates your efforts. You will, of course, be amply rewarded once you reach your destination." Amon bowed deeply and rose at the father's command.

"Robin," she jumped at her name and swallowed before facing him. "Do you remember anything before you awoke today?"

She thought about the flashes of broken memories and odd understanding of the physical world. "I remember…strange things. I know this is Japan…"

"What do you remember?"

She licked her lips. "Well, I remember a girl with gold hair and someone standing at a stove. I remember candy, and…I remember a scent."

Benetello quirked a brow and folded his hands flat against the desk. "A scent? A strange thing to recall." His thin lips tightened in a wayward smile and then he asked, "Have your eyes been bothering you, Robin?"

Perplexed, she nodded and rubbed them absentmindedly. A subtle cough rumbled next to her, and Robin turned to see Amon's eyes narrowed and watching her. She lowered her hands and tucked them into the coat pockets. She had forgotten he was there.

The bishop stood up slowly, his legs creaking. He grimaced and massaged his right hip. Pushing back the chair, he walked to the bookcase and scanned the titles for a long moment before plucking a thick volume. Turning back to her, he flipped through the book and laid it on the desk. Pointing to a photograph, he said, "Do you recognize this?"

At first she only saw a stone circle, engraved in strange markings. Then, like a mirage in the distance growing clearer, she remembered. Glancing at Amon, her mouth agape, he only watched her, eyes solemn and empty.

"Yes. Yes, I do. It's the Phaistos Disk."

* * *

Amon watched her as she gazed down at the picture. His eyes met the bishop's over her head. It was only a matter of time before she remembered more.

"Good, Robin." Father slammed the volume shut, sending a cloud of dust into her eyes. She stumbled back into Amon, wiping her eyes and coughing. He caught her elbow and steadied her.

"I have something I want to give you, Robin. It will soothe your eyes." Father Benetello paused for a moment, eyes distant, before shoving the book back into place. "But I will wait until tomorrow."

"But Father-" Amon clamped Robin's shoulder in a hard grip, making her wince.

"You both need your rest. Go with the Brother outside. Goodnight."

With that he turned from them and seated himself again at the desk, fingers poring over the open text. Amon recognized the dismissal and steered Robin to the door, clasping the latch and pushing her through before she could say anything more. The Father was only so patient, even for Robin.

The monk stood outside, his patient expression breaking into a slight smile. Without a word, he led them down a darkened corridor, is head bent and a few paces ahead to give them the allusion of privacy.

"Amon, what was that object?"

Lifting a brow, he said, "You recognized it. Why are you asking me?"

A faint line appeared between her brows, and she rubbed her eyes furiously. "Because I don't know why I remember it! Just the name…I don't know what it means!"

"Maybe it will come to you in a dream, he said obliquely.

"A dream?" Her face suddenly turned from confused to angry. "What are you hiding? Why is everything so secret? Why did Father Benetello ask me about the stone?"

He walked silently for a moment. He could tell her. The Church had not forbid it. But if she were real, she would realize it herself.

"You'll know in the morning."

* * *

They followed the quiet brother through a stone arch cracking in the center and up a flight of narrow brownstone stairs.

Amon stepped lightly, listening for Robin's anxious steps behind him. Quick, quick until he swore he could feel the warmth of her breathe against his neck, and then silence and slow footfalls. She was scared. He didn't blame her.

The monk stopped before a closed door and swung it open to reveal a small bed and washstand. A lone chair sat against the far wall next to a wide window.

"Please, these are you quarters, signorina." Startled, Robin looked to Amon.

"You will stay here for tonight," he explained. Before should could ask, he said, "Wait here and some garments will be brought." He stopped suddenly and stared into those deep brown eyes, lost in the depth for maybe an eternity. Did she remember how she used to sleep? Half under the sheet, slim white limbs splayed across the bed. The lazily twirling fan stirring wheat strands fanned out on the pillow, lips slightly parted. Amon closed his eyes tightly at the sudden constriction in his groin.

Robin was speaking to him when his eyes opened. She looked worried, her green eyes bright. "I'll see you in the morning, Robin." He gave her back a helpful push into the room before closing the door on her confused face. Better if he couldn't see her.

Turning to the attentive monk, he pulled a small packet out of his pants pocket and handed it to him. "Brew this in a herbal tea. Have her drink it. All of it." The monk nodded quickly and left to do his bidding.

Sighing, Amon walked further down the hall, running his fingers along the rough stones. He opened a door identical to Robin's at the end of the corridor and entered his usual room. No one had disturbed it. His laptop sat on the small rickety desk, shirts and pants still flung carelessly over the back of a chair.

He shed his clothes down to bare skin, running hands over the tired muscles. Amon grimaced as he massaged his knee. Still tender even after all this time.

Amon grabbed a pair of gray sleep pants and pulled them on. The computer brightened to life as he slid into the chair, tapping the mouse pad. A blinking message sat on the desktop. New mail. He read the paragraph slowly, and then again. Shit.

He leaned the chair back until it balanced on the back legs and clasped his hands behind his head. Time was running out. Everything had to go smoothly tomorrow. He gray eyes flicked towards the window. Was she ready? It didn't matter. They were coming fast. Amon hadn't thought they would start the hunt so soon, but he had underestimated their blinding greed.

Slamming the chair back down, he rested his jaw in his hand, elbow on the desk, and stared out at the black night sky.

* * *

Robin stared out the window, chin in hand. She lay stretched across the bed, toes curling against the soft sheets. The night was pitch black. The stars hid behind thick clouds just barely discernable as the wind pushed them across the sky.

She didn't feel tired. How could she sleep when there were so many things to think about? She ran fingertips over her face, tracing the features and shape. Even this was foreign. A wrong twist of her arm and her right shoulder began to throb. Groaning, she rubbed the muscle hard, the ache reminding her of the day's events. Suddenly everything began to hurt.

A soft knock at the door made her turn awkwardly to look and she called for them to enter. The brown-clothed monk walked in holding a gently steaming cup in his right hand, a bundle of clothes pinned beneath his arm. Robin pulled the coat tight about her before sliding to the side of the bed. He extended his arm out to her, nodding emphatically for her to drink. While she sipped slowly, he laid the clothes neatly on the chair.

It was tea, maybe chamomile. Strange flavor, though. Her mouth quirked at the thought. Well, that was a memory. She wondered silently what kind of tea she liked until the monk moved to stand before her, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching her. Feeling uncomfortable, Robin quickly swallowed the hot tea, choking slightly as it burned her tongue.

He smiled and took the cup before leaving with a quiet click of the door. Licking the corners of her mouth, Robin slipped off the bed and pulled a dark garment from the pile on the chair. It unfolded into a shirt, sleeveless and thin. She found a pair of underwear and pants that looked too big for her narrow hips. Discarding the black coat, she let it pool at her feet and dressed in the borrowed clothes. The pants slid off her frame immediately, but she didn't bother to pick them up.

Turning on her heel, Robin stumbled and grabbed for the chair back. A strange, languid feeling had crept into her muscles. She felt loose and fuzzy. Rubbing her left eye momentarily, she wobbled to the bed and threw the sheet back. The world shrunk to a small dark circle and her breathing pounded in her ears. The window spun in place. Blinking rapidly, she fell into the soft mattress, barely pulling the sheet over her frame before she passed out.

* * *

She tapped her nails lightly against the steel desk as she lounged elegantly in the director's dark office. God, he had been worthless, she thought, tipping her head back and sighing. Now she had to clean up the insipid man's mess.

Rubbing her fingers over the shallow twin indentations in the metal desktop, she gingerly picked up the phone and dialed.

"Ouais?" A scratchy voice answered groggily.

"Patch me through to the boss."

"Est il vous attendant? You know what time-"

She gritted her teeth and spat, "Put me through, Boden. Now." Her last word rang echoed along the phone line and he stammered awkwardly. She smiled, white teeth gleaming in the darkness.

The phone rang four times before a heavily accented voice picked up. "Oui?"

"Bonjour, monsieur."

"Why, Mademoiselle Deveraux, I did not expect to hear from you so late. Was there a complication?"

She licked her lips nervously. A light sheen of sweat coated her brow. "I'm dealing with it, sir. I've already…disciplined the director."

"I hope you this can be resolved quickly, Major. Remember, you have a deadline."

"Of course." She leaned forward; her forehead almost touching the desk. "Everything will be ready for the solstice."

"Major, let me remind you that if this mission fails, I will hold you personally responsible." Her eyes bulged, trembling. "Remember that and take care, Major. Bonne nuit."

* * *

Hot breath fanned out over her neck, warm openmouthed kisses trailing up her throat, a wet tongue tracing the shell of her ear. Still half asleep, she moaned and turned her head until their lips met. Her mouth opened under the insistent pressure and his tongue delved deep.

Her eyes blinked open, squinting in the morning sunlight flaring through the blinds when he pulled back. He grinned down at her as he balanced on his forearms over her. Thick brown hair hung past his ears and hid the strong line of his jaw. Reaching up, she ran a light fingertip down his nose between deep blue eyes and over full lips, her finger sucked into his mouth before she could pull back. She giggled as his tongue swirled around the tip, her deep brown irises receding as his eyes locked with hers.

A door slammed and she gasped, pushing at his shoulder. "We have to get up! Stop!" she screamed as he grabbed her before she could leave the bed. Tickling her unmercifully, she laughed until they fell to the floor, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

A loud knock sounded on the door. "Come on! We need to leave."

Robin wiggled out of her lover's grasp, pushing his hands away when they tried to slide up her loose tank top. "No, James, I mean it! You're going to make Amon angry."

James made another grab for her, grinning when she let him hold her for a moment before pushing him away again. "He's always pissed off at something or other." He leered at her as she dodged his hands and turned on the shower. "We might as well give him something to _really_ be angry about."

The knocking had grown louder. Leaving Robin to shower, he closed the bathroom door. "Damn it!" James swore as the door vibrated, swiping a pair of jeans and tugging them on before throwing open the door. "Jesus, Amon, what the hell? Are you trying to take the door down?"

Ignoring his younger brother's complaints, Amon peered inside the room, noting the tangled sheets and yesterday's clothing thrown haphazardly across the floor. "If you want to make it to Mom and Dad's by nightfall, you had better hurry up." He peered down his nose at his brother, taking in the wrinkled jeans and light shadow on his jaw. "We're leaving in 30 minutes. Be ready."

"What if Robin needs more time?" Amon stopped mid-step, and looked back out of the corner of his eye, his brother watching him with a look that made his chest tighten. "Then tell her to hurry up."

* * *

Robin stared out the window, watching the scenery fly by. The roads were mostly empty. A van rode up close on their bumper before speeding past and exiting. They had left the city behind miles ago and now the long roads were lined with dense forest and brush. She'd agonized over her wardrobe until James feigned death and laid on the floor until she threw a bottle of shampoo at him. She had pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a red shirt emblazoned with the San Francisco Chronicle's logo, where she worked as a features editor. Might as well try to impress them, she thought, tugging the shirt down when the wind whipped through the open windows. She laid her head back against the seat and half-heartedly listened to the two brothers sitting in front as they bickered about the radio and which way was the fastest route. Eyes at half-mast, Robin surveyed them, assessing each one in turn. James was the wilder of the two, always had been. Never failed to get into trouble and still messed up the laundry. His hair was habitually an inch or so longer than it should have been and he spent far too much time under the hood of his beat up '95 Ford F-150. He'd been perfect for her, though. He made her feel freer. Terrific in bed and at letting her scream at him until she'd worn herself out enough to listen to his side. Two years now, she had been perfectly happy…until a few months ago.

Her eyes shifted to Amon. Dark. That always seemed to fit his countenance. Handsome and reserved, his eyes spoke for him, an intense gray that saw everything. Taller than James, with a stronger build, he lacked his younger brother's ease with people. While James had entered the Air Force straight out of high school and advanced through the ranks with unaccountable ease, Amon had studied at UC-Berkeley, majoring in psychology. His inability, or unwillingness, to connect with people made a career in medicine unviable, so when the FBI recruited him, he readily agreed. Robin smiled at the memory of Amon pinning her to the kitchen wall, holding out his ID and giving the Miranda warning while James ignored them and continued flipping television channels in the living room. That had been the moment. His gray eyes too close to her brown ones, his breath slipping over he parted lips. What had started out as fun had turned into something else. Her stomach had clenched and her body tightened in all the wrong places. Amon had leaned in imperceptibly, his mouth suddenly so close she only had to shift to touch him. He stiffened then, pulling back just as James walked in, complaining about whoever let the Cheetos go stale. And that had been the beginning of the end.

Still fighting, Amon pulled the car into an empty gas station a few miles off the highway set back in the woods. James climbed out and slammed the door, yelling he'd be right back and disappeared into the convenience store. Robin opened her car door and sat with her legs out, watching Amon efficiently remove the gas cap and start filling the car. As if feeling her gaze, his gray eyes shifted to lock with hers. The tension was killing her.

"Amon, we need to talk." Her voice was a whisper, but she kept her eyes trained on his face, waiting for an answer. He stood still for a moment, his face its usual stoic mask, before nodding curtly and leaning his shoulders against the gas pump.

"Robin, I-" The sound of shattering glass jerked him off the pump and he was halfway to the store before Robin could round the car. Bullets pumped out of the windows, pocking the car and whipping past her ears. "ROBIN!" Amon roared, doubling back, "Get down!" He shoved her on to the ground, covering her body with his own. "Get away from the car," he whispered in her ear before crawling off her and racing cautiously around the side of the building.

Hands over her head, Robin huddled on the ground, screaming each time a bullet ripped through the air over her head. Trying to be brave, she walked on her hands and knees towards the thicket of bushes surrounding the gas station. She whimpered and cried, but didn't stop moving until she was ensconced inside the green foliage.

Peeking out, she realized the bullets had stopped. It was silent. She leaned out, wondering if it was safe. Suddenly, gunfire sounded again, but this time accompanied by someone's screams. A body tumbled out of an empty window, its shirt dark and gleaming. Clapping a hand over her mouth, Robin sat still, unable to move. An engine kicked and rolled and a dark blue van swerved out from behind the station, it's back doors open. Two men rushed out and into the store and she could hear crashing and the heavy _thunk_ of flesh hitting flesh.

The same two men ran out again, holding a body between them. Robin squinted her eyes, and then gasped. _James_. Forgetting the danger, she fought her way out of the close branches and raced towards the van. "James!" she screamed, flinging herself at one of the men. He swore violently as she raked her fingernails down his face and neck, drawing blood. Reaching back, he caught her by the nape of her neck and threw her down hard, her head cracking against the cement curb. Robin watched James' still face until the van doors closed and she blacked out.

The first thing she noticed when she awoke was the blinding pain. Her skull felt like someone was splitting it in two, from the inside. Groaning, she touched her head gingerly as she staggered to her feet, stumbling over the curb and slamming into a wall. Her hand came away bloody. Blood? What…?

"Amon!" She tried to run, but her head swam and her vision faded in and out. Leaning against the store, she slid her way to the door, pushed through and tripped on a can, smashing her knee into the linoleum floor. Clutching her knee, she frantically hobbled down the short aisle, searching for Amon. He was in the last aisle, next to the freezer. He lay prostrate on his stomach, the freezer's shattered glass blanketed over him. Dropping to her hands and knees, Robin smoothed his hair back from his face, and spoke softly. "Amon? Amon, wake up. Please, Amon, wake up. Can you hear me?" She hunkered down close to his face and breathed a sigh of relief when she felt warm air flow against her skin. Shaking his shoulder lightly, she turned him so he lay on his back, his head on her thigh. Her skull was pounding. Lost in a haze of pain, she waited. It seemed eons before his eyes flitted open, pupils dilated.

"Oh, Amon, thank God. I wasn't sure you'd wake up," she cried, smoothing her hands over his jaw and forehead. "Are you all right? What happened? Where's James?"

Amon coughed hard, blood flecking his lips and chin. Wheezing, he said, "They took him."

Licking her lips, Robin nodded frantically. "I know, Amon. Who took him? Where is he?"

He seemed to fade away from her for a moment and she called his name despairingly, trying to bring him back. Opening his eyes again, the gray was clearer this time. "I don't know. I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know."

* * *

Robin bolted upright in bed, her hair sticking to her face, beads of sweat clinging to her arms and soaking her thin shirt. Her green eyes flared wide, her breath coming in quick gasps. She couldn't breathe. There wasn't enough air. Clumsily throwing off the sheet, she stumbled to the window and threw up the latch, letting in the cool night air. Her head was swimming; her muscles ached like she had been running. Robin clutched her stomach as it heaved and raced to the washstand, vomiting up water and thick yellow liquid. Still dry heaving, she collapsed to the floor, limbs sprawled out, and tried to draw in enough air.

What the hell happened?

* * *

That's it! And here's what the monk said-

Ciò è il bishop di Firenze, padre Mauricio Benetello. La sua Eccellenza potrà rispondere a tutte le vostre domande. Attenderò la parte esterna quando siete aspettate per andare in pensione ai vostri quarti 

Tranlation: This is the Bishop of Florence, Father Mauricio Benetello. His Excellency will be able to answer all your questions. I will be waiting outside when you are ready to retire to your quarters.

A special thanks: Misora (you rock and you're the only celebrity I know) and Professor Burd for being so damn boring that I wrote in class.


End file.
